


The Referral

by Shianhygge



Category: Hannibal (TV)
Genre: Doctor/Patient, Eat The Rude, F/F, F/M, Gen, Literally mocking myself in retrospect, M/M, Mentor/Protégé, Reader ships Will and Hannibal hardcore, Reader will have minor crushes on characters, Some plot based off actual experiences, TBH just a bit self-indulgent, The troubles of a young adult, Writing this was therapeutic, but there will be no romance planned, reader is female, teenage angst
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-07-13
Updated: 2020-07-13
Packaged: 2021-03-04 23:20:45
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,781
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25234561
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Shianhygge/pseuds/Shianhygge
Summary: Fandom: HannibalWord Count: ~ 2,782 wordsGenre: DramaPairings: Mentor Hannibal/Female Reader ; Hannibal Lecter/Will GrahamReader was referred to Dr. Lecter to continue their therapy. Any relationship with the good doctor, however, is bound to end in a mess.Rewritten version of "A Monster Among Monsters" (now deleted because reasons.)
Relationships: Alana Bloom/Margot Verger, Hannibal Lecter/Reader, Mentor Hannibal/Reader, Will Graham/Hannibal Lecter
Comments: 2
Kudos: 35





	The Referral

**Author's Note:**

> With Netflix now streaming all three seasons of Hannibal, I've taken the time to binge watch my favorite TV show of all time once again. And then, I took a look at one of the one shot series that I had going on this platform and Archive of Our Own, by the name of "A Monster Among Monsters." (now deleted, because of the repeated messages I received regarding transphobia. Because excuse me if I wanted to write LGBTQ+ ignorant characters.)
> 
> This is my attempt at rewriting the one shots to form a more cohesive story, whilst simultaneously providing myself with pseudo therapy.
> 
> PS: I’ve also started to back up all my work to wordpress just in case things get lost.

Disorientating and out-of-place. That was what you felt as you sat down in the small and private waiting room across from a small wooden desk. The secretary, a fairly young Caucasian woman, had informed the doctor that you had just arrived for your five o-clock appointment and asked if you’d like a glass of water while you waited. You politely declined as you had a refillable water bottle stored in your backpack.

This was an entirely different environment than that of your previous psychiatrist, which had been a small office inside a brick building built in the 1980s.

The seat beneath you was a soft velvet plush intricately stitched into what seemed like hand carved oak wood. The shelves lining the wall behind the secretary-

_Oh… I’ve already forgot her name… A-…Alissa?… Maybe not… but it definitely started with an ‘A’_

-seemed excessive in their design.

In the small waiting room, full of grandeur and elegant tastes, only two things did not seem to belong: the secretary, and yourself.

The secretary, because despite how well-dressed and put together she was, you felt that the older woman felt distinctly uncomfortable in this setting. Her nail polish was chipped, her make up hastily done. The bags under her eyes barely concealed by the cosmetics likely indicated a lack of sleep, or trouble sleeping. She simply didn’t fit this setting naturally.

And then… there was you.

You were probably more out of place than the secretary you’d just observed. Still clothed in the ill-fitting school uniform belonging to your minimally funded high school, you looked more like the child of a patient, waiting for her mother or father to finish their appointment for the day, than a prospective patient to a renown doctor. You wondered idly if you should have packed a change of clothes before walking to school in the morning. At least, then, you wouldn’t have shown up in a navy blue polo shirt two sizes too large for your frame, and khakis bought from the discounted boys section of your local bargain store. Pairing the large clothes with your almost boyishly short hair, and it would not be too off the mark to say that you looked like a young boy.

_I definitely stand out._

So much grandeur that surrounded you, and against your better judgment, you took in a deep whiff of the room.

When your father had dropped you off on the front steps of the building, promising to come pick you up once the appointment was over, you’d taken a moment to observe the exterior. Your first thoughts were that the building was rather old compared to the others in the neighborhood, that it was very well maintained, and that the good doctor must have been a man of renown and wealth to be able to afford the entire building. Now, when you decided to take a better look and smell of your surroundings, you noticed that contrary to your expectations, the old building didn’t smell like old musty wood, like you would have associated to your home town’s small public library.

Instead, the smell was that of newly treated wood, clean velvet, something floral, and a subdued sweet strawberry body spray. Your face is a carefully polite canvas even as your olfactory nerves detect the too sweet scent of the body spray, thankful that it seemed to be subdued despite it’s artificial sweetness. Your sense of smell was above average, highly sensitive to strong odors and scented perfumes, but not sensitive to the point of headaches. The strawberry body spray seemed to belong to the secretary, however, as you doubted anyone sophisticated enough to pick out the office furniture to find the the smell pleasant… _Or, Dr. Dessai referred me to someone with odd quirks._

You shake your head of these thoughts and take a glance at the watch on your wrist.

_16:43_

You’re very early for your appointment due to your dislike of tartiness, a trait that certain members within your family did not share. All appropriate paperwork had been filled out through a form sent in via email, so there wasn’t much to do except wait for the doctor. With a sigh, you reach over to your school bag and dig out the reading assignment that your English teacher had assigned, “The Stranger” by Albert Camus.

_“Maman died today. Or yesterday maybe, I don’t know. I got a telegram from the home: ‘Mother deceased. Funeral tomorrow. Faithfully yours.’ That doesn’t mean anything. Maybe it was yesterday-”_

Approximately 15 minutes later

It is the click of a door latch that catches your attention, pulling your eyes away from the novel in your lap to the dark wooden door as it is pulled open. You blink, once, twice, to refocus your eyes behind prescription lenses as a tall gentleman with greying dark hair steps out of the room. Subconsciously, you inhale deeply and discreetly for the second time in the span of thirty minutes. You’re barely given a moment to process what the man smells like before brown eyes sweep to meet yours and he smiles gently.

“Oh! Doctor Lecter! I would have escorted Ms. L/N into your office.” The young woman looked almost bashful as she stands from her chair.

You take the doctor’s lapse in attention to quickly gather your things and stand as well, compelled to action because of the etiquette lesson’s you’d taken for fun at school. “It is no trouble, Amanda. I prefer to greet first time patients at the door.”

_Oh… Amanda… that’s what her name was._

When Dr. Lecter’s gaze settles upon you once more, your smile is practiced and polite as you lean forwards with a singular step and the outstretching of your hand. “Dr. Lecter, it’s a pleasure to meet you!” You are forced to look up at the well dressed man, dwarfed by both his height and his charisma.

The smile widens as Dr. Lecter takes your hand in his, grip equally as firm as your own as he replies, “Ms. L/N, the pleasure is all mine.” He steps a respectable distance back to clear the doorway into his office, gesturing into it with guiding hands, “Please, do come in.”

You enter his office with a polite ‘thank you’ inhaling deeply as you pass the good doctor and into his office. _Citrus_. You ponder, allowing your eyes to take in the room’s decor and layout even while Dr. Lecter guides you to a set of chairs just slightly off center from the middle of the room. _Parchment, old books… something floral again._

“You have a very beautiful office, Dr. Lecter.” You state matter-of-factly as you take a seat in the plush leather chair, gently setting down your bag while your eyes remained transfixed upon the books lining the shelves of the upper level.

You barely manage to tear your gaze from the design of the office to see the pleased smile on the doctor’s face as he takes the seat directly opposite of you. “I thank you for the compliments, Ms. L/N. Please make yourself comfortable.” You have to force your eyes away from your surroundings when Dr. Lecter begins to speak, “Your mother and father informed me that my colleague, Dr. Dessai referred you to me for therapy during my appointment with them last month.”

You nod, eyes meeting the good doctor’s just like your mentor had instructed you. “Yes. Daniella-… I mean, Dr. Dessai, has been my therapist since I first started going at the age of ten. But, Dr. Dessai retired last year, so she referred me to you.”

Dr. Lecter’s smile softens as he straightens up in his seat, “Yes, your mother and father have informed me as to why they sent you to therapy at such a young age, as well as why you decided to stop attending sessions. What your parents didn’t know, however, was why you wished to return to therapy after three years. Your mother and father were both quite alarmed that you wished to return.” There is something disapproving about Dr. Lecter’s gaze even though his tone doesn’t show it. You know that look from anywhere. It’s the same one that your father wears when he doesn’t agree with something you do, but accepts it nonetheless.

You tried to smile, but it quickly turned into a grimace as you tore your gaze away from the rather handsome doctor. “I’m sorry.” The compulsion to apologize forces the words from your mouth. You close your eyes and shake your head with a heavy sigh, “No, I should probably apologize to my mother and father, but they are part of the reason why I wished to come back.”

“It would be best to clear the confusion between you, Y/N. If I may refer to you by your first name?” At your nod of consent, the good doctor continues, his accented voice somehow soothing. “Please continue, Y/N. Why have you decided to continue your therapy?”

Tentatively, you raise your eyes to meet his brown ones again, noting that something about Dr. Lecter’s gaze screamed ‘all-seeing.’ Something within you screams and yells at you to tear your eyes away, but you stop yourself, wanting… needing for someone to see you without the tiresome facade. “It’s recently come to my attention that I might have stopped going to therapy rather prematurely.” You stop and gather yourself before continuing, “I’m sure my parents informed you why they wanted me to go to therapy in the first place.” Dr. Lecter nods, though you barely notice it, your mind replaying moments from the past in short bursts. “Therapy was a relief for my parents, I think. They wanted a professional to observe their child to see if I was traumatized by what my brother did to me. The sessions with Dr. Dessai were enlightening and helped me understand my own mind, but I think I was too young for the sessions to have helped me deal with the incident. My parents and I agreed to stop seeing Dr. Dessai after four years because I didn’t show any signs of trauma.” You tear your eyes away almost shamefully, “I’m beginning to recognize the wounds and the scars.”

Dr. Lecter nods and quickly writes a few notes into the notebook on the glass table beside him. When he meets your gaze again, it is filled with sympathy. “I received a summary of what you’ve endured, Y/N, but I do not have access to the official record. If you’d like to talk about it this session, I will not protest, but-” Dr. Lecter pauses and leans forward ever so slightly, eyes meeting yours so that you understand him clearly, “You have nothing to be ashamed of, Y/N. What your brother did to you was terrible, but it was not your fault.”

Your smile is forced and your voice is hoarse even as you speak, “It’s easy to say, but…” The smile turns into a frown as you force yourself to get back on track, “There’s a lot of chattering in my mind, Dr. Lecter, and I don’t think talking to my family about it will help me.”

“Have you tried talking to your mother and father about your thoughts and feelings?”

You know that the good doctor already knew the answer to his question, but you answer anyways. “My father only listens to half of everything that comes out of my mouth, and I’ve tried to talk to my mother about it, but… it’s difficult to talk to her.”

“How is it difficult to communicate with her?” His face is like stone, showing no emotion even as his eyes twinkle with an analytic ease.

“I love my mother and father, Dr. Lecter, even when I’m one of the least affectionate people I know.” Your expression pulls at all ends as it begs for the doctor to understand, “And I wish I was able to speak to them about my problems, but… with my mother, whenever I attempt to speak to her about something troubling me, she always responds with something about her past as if she and I are comparable.”

“Could it be your mother’s way of attempting to relate to you?”

“Maybe, but I don’t think so.” A heavy sigh escapes your lungs, “When I brought up that I wanted to go back to therapy, her first response was, ‘Why? Is there something wrong with you?’ as if having a mental illness was a prerequisite to going to therapy.”

“Her question could be interpreted as concern, Y/N.”

“I know that she was concerned, but then she continued with, ‘You know, when my ex-husband was beating me, I also thought about killing myself. But I didn’t. Because I’m stronger than others.’” There’s a frustrated stinging at the edges of your eyes as you force your tears away. “I don’t… How does one even respond to that, Dr. Lecter?”

“Well,” Somehow, Dr. Lecter didn’t seemed phased about your mother’s response. “Let us step back and think about this together. When your mother said what she did, how did that make you feel?”

“I felt… frustrated, belittled, aghast… betrayed… angry.” Even speaking about it now, the feelings are fresh, easily rising to the surface of your heart.

“And why do you feel these emotions, Y/N?”

“Because laid a part of myself bare to my mother when I told her that I wanted to continue therapy, and instead of asking me if I was okay or taking the time to sit down with me and talk about it, she makes light of my feelings by comparing it to her own experiences. As if saying that her situation had been more severe. As if saying I’m weak. As if implying that I don’t need therapy to solve the chatter in my head.” The more you talk the more you want to cry.

“You feel as if your mother dismissed your problems as insignificant.” It was an apt summary by Dr. Lecter, but if you were to be honest, what you had just described barely even broke the surface of your communication issues with your mother.

“When you put it like that, I feel like my thoughts were all pointless.” You sigh in exasperation.

The understanding smile on Dr. Lecter’s face makes you feel chastised, “I don’t mean to do that, but have you told your mother that you felt like she was dismissing your problems?”

“No.” The defeat in your voice and body language spoke for itself, “But I don’t know how to talk to my mother. She’s always busy with something, so I never have her undivided attention. And then, when I do manage to get a piece of her time and try to have a serious discussion with her about something, she always has to bring her own past into the conversation as well. Or, if she thinks she’s right about something, she completely dismisses any other opinion. And then, when she loses her temper, I lose my temper.” You look at Dr. Lecter, almost desperate, “And I’m no good in a heated argument, Dr. Lecter. Once people start yelling at me, I can’t help but start crying, and that definitely doesn’t help with anything. But mom especially, because she gets angrier when you cry.”

“Perhaps, Y/N, you should try to pull your mother away from whatever she has to do, and you must tell her that you want her to hear you out completely before she responds. Try to stay as calm as you can during your explanation, and if she starts to become too confrontational, take what she said and rephrase it in your head. Take a moment to respond. This way, you’ll avoid flaring either of your tempers.”

“And if she starts to get impatient?”

The smirk on Dr. Lecter’s lips has something mischievous about it, “Then tell her that your doctor instructed you to take your time. Do you understand?”

You breathe in deeply, taking in the scent of citrus again, the smell calming you. “I understand, Dr. Lecter…” Your eyes widen as you suddenly realize how sidetracked you’d gone. “Oh… um… I… forgot how we ended up speaking about this but…” The smile that rises to your lips is genuine, “I feel like a weight has been lifted.”

The older gentleman smiles at you, pleased. “I am glad, Y/N. We are here for you. So long as I can help lift that weight from you, then I believe that we are making progress. Shall we continue?”

The smile on your face widens as you take another deep breath, “Yes.”

_Bergamot… He smells of Bergamot._

_~~~~~~~~~~~~~_


End file.
